a specific ache beneath my ribs -
my gut, my small intestine, maybe? -
means I'm ready to be in love; it comes
with fear, tentative longing;
I think I want it, but I'm not sure, so I
crush it before it breaks the bones.
the itch beneath my left ventricle stands
for regret, hatred of a mirror's edge;
that squeezing sensation
means I've done too much (or not enough).
that heart-sinking feeling, you know the one,
is the calm before the storm that reigns
on bathroom floors, cubicles on the fifth
floor, even the subway stop late at night
when dawn hasn't given away to sun
and the only thoughts I have are about
blood, sweat, tears, and jumping
(potential causes: you dont want to be alone;
that reflection you hate is coming alive; that body
you hate is failing you; that fear you taste is not
poison, but the very thing keeping you from
fading.)
(r.l.c.)
YOU ARE READING
To Be Determined
PoetryBook 4 of seemingly endless poetry (or should I say possibilities?) Some poems are real life, some are not. Think before you assume.
